


who ya gonna call?

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cats, Ghosts, Mystery Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: hint: it's not the ghostbusters





	who ya gonna call?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“About what?”

You stare between Stanley and Ford incredulously.

“There’s two of you?”

They laugh in unison and you glance at Fiddleford, who shrugs, defeated.

“Took me a long while too, not gonna lie to ya. They’re pretty easy ta tell apart, once ya get used to it.”

Fiddleford has that right. Stanley is much louder than Ford is, and he wears his hair slicked back with a lot of shiny-looking gel. Sans glasses, they were identical, but since Ford had his telltale specs on every day, you didn’t have to worry about mixing them up.

“Yes, this is my brother, Stanley.” Ford gestures to his twin, who bends in a theatrical bow. “Stanley, this is my assistant, they started here a few weeks ago.”

“Charmed t’meet ‘cha,” Stanley grins, and you can’t help but return his smile. “Sixer didn’t tell me he had a helper in his weird-stuff-search. Someone… except ol’ Fidds, at least.”

There’s an odd tone to his voice you can’t decipher, but Ford nudges him indignantly.

“Yes, they’ve been helping me with field work and the like whenever Fiddleford has been absent. A great help, especially in finding certain creatures that I couldn’t, well… locate.”

He means those “eyebats”, apparently. He had the wrong cave entirely, you tell Stanley, and he snorts at Ford’s embarrassed blush. If you hadn’t gotten lost and taken a different path, they’d still be undiscovered.

“Ah, man, that’s rich.” Stanley wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Well, I’ll be seein’ a lotta’ you around, now that I’m stayin’ here too. Hopefully you don’t mind the couch.”

“I’m taking the couch,” Ford insists. “My assistant’s health is paramount to our research, and it would be only right for me to surrender my bed for them.”

Stanley quirks a brow at that, and even Fiddleford looks surprised. You protest, saying you can easily find a hotel for a while, staying with him was taking up too much space anyways—

Ford shakes his head at you, smiling warmly. You swear he puffs out his chest a bit, but you decide to try and ignore it. Try, at least.

“No, no, it’s fine. You can take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch. No buts! I need you here for emergencies, after all.”

Stanley winks at you. You don’t understand why.

“Well, I already called dibs on the guest room, so no sneakin’ into my room in the middle of the night, okay?”

Ford sputters in protest and you start laughing, shaking your head at him. There will be no bed-sharing in this house, you confirm, folding your arms across your chest. Nosiree. Nope.

You glance at Ford who, for just a moment, looks scandalized (and maybe upset?) at your statement. As soon as he realizes you’re staring at him, he shakes his head, nods, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Yes, we’re all— we’re all very professional here, Stanley. No room for those sorts of— those sorts of jokes.”

He seems frazzled, and you reach out to pat his shoulder, asking if he’s alright. He jolts like you burned him and he nods again, pulling his journal from his coat.

“I’m fine, of course! Why wouldn’t I be? Anyway, Stan, are you still willing to help us find this ghost that’s been haunting the Wentworths? Apparently it’s been giving Susan a fair amount of trouble.”

“Susan? Y’mean the one you shocked with that one generator a—“

“That was an accident! And she’s fine, Stanley, it only lightly hurt her eyelid’s nerve endings. Regardless.”

Ford puts a six-fingered hand to his chin and thinks for a moment. He assumes that thinking pose so often each day, you barely notice it, but today… he looks different, somehow. Maybe the light in the room was brighter, or you were looking at him from a different angle, but with his thick glasses, aquiline nose and warm eyes… He’s handsome. How you’d never noticed it before seems like a crime now as you mindlessly ogle your boss.

Uh oh.

Stan catches you staring and waggles his brows at you, snapping you from your reverie. You shake your head and blink once, twice.

Must just be the light, you convince yourself, as the four of you head out from Ford’s house and towards town.

— — — — —

“Oh, Stanford! Thank goodness you’re here!”

A young woman wear pink plastic hair-clips shaped like cats answers the door. Echoing her greeting comes several high-pitched meows, one from an orange cat she’s cradling in both arms. A calico cat peeks around the banister of the stairs, staring up at you with round amber eyes.

“Hello, Susan,” Ford smiles, glancing at the cat warily. “You called about a ghost?”

“Three times?” Fiddleford pipes up, holding three fingers up.

Susan glances up and down her street cautiously before ushering you all into her house. It’s homey, very pink, and there are three more cats that stare at you when you enter. One slinks a figure eight around your ankles, sniffing your shoelaces. You murmur a quiet hello at the cat and crouch down to pet its head, giggling when it sniffs at your fingertips. Above your head (and out of your line of sight), Ford turns at your laugh, and his face softens, a fondness eclipsing his stern business-like expression.

“… And it won’t leave me or my kitties alone, Stanford! Stanford?”

You look up at Ford in question, and he quickly regains his composure, straightening the lapels of his jacket and looking back to Susan.

“Y-Yes, sorry. Uh, you said this ghost… it does what, exactly?”

“He’s been terrorizing my kitties! He won’t leave Brad alone, will he, Braddy-kins?”

She looks to the sofa, where an unbothered black cat is licking its butt. She lets the orange cat in her arms jump to the floor in favor of scooping up Brad, nuzzling his forehead.

“My poor Braddy-kins has been bullied by this ghost, Stanford. His food keeps levitating and the water bowl keeps spilling, an— Look! There it goes!”

True to her word, Susan points a pink-clawed finger towards a far corner in the kitchen. A silver bowl with “Brad” written on it, the most normal object one could think of… Floating at least a foot in the air. Stanley jumps when he sees it and takes a step back, accidentally stepping on a white Persian cat’s tail. The cat yowls and scampers off— the noise makes the bowl thud back onto the ground.

“Oh, Felicity! Are you alright, dear?” Susan loses interest in the ghost and goes to comfort Felicity. You, Ford, Stan, and Fiddleford all slowly walk towards the previously floating bowl, which slowly starts to rise into the air again. Ford squints at it for a moment, kneeling down on the floor.

“It’s a category one ghost. Come out, please.”

As soon as he says the magic word, the ghost pops out from under the bowl. It’s only small, but its big sparkly eyes more than make up for that. The ghost carefully puts the bowl back on the ground and stares up at the four of you quizzically, blinking dolefully.

“Ooooh… Helloooooo… Are you here to engage in some fun adventures with meeee?”

Ford looks irritated, Stan’s amazed, and Fiddleford appears terrified, hiding behind Susan’s trashcan. You feel a bit of all three.

“We don’t want any of your G-rated adventures, thank you very much.” Ford stands and dusts off his knees, writing something in his journal. Stanley and Fiddleford head back to the living room in Ford’s stead, but you stay near the bowl and the ghost, examining it. You mumble a quiet greeting at the ghost, smiling warmly at it.

“Hellooooo… Will you be my frieeeeend?”

Before you can reply, Ford covers your mouth with his hand.

“Don’t say anything! One word of encouragement and he’ll follow you around for years. Just ignore him and he’ll go away in a while.”

You try to protest; he’s only a little ghost, what harm can he be? Ford insists you ignore him, so you do. You reluctantly turn your back on the category one ghost—

Only to find yourself standing in front of another ghost.

It raises a finger to its … lips? You can’t quite tell. You go to call to Ford, but he’s frozen in place— in fact, everyone is. Brad the cat is paused mid-leap from Susan’s arms, Ford is frozen in the middle of scribbling in his journal, and Stan looks almost asleep in place. You look back to the ghost.

You ask what’s going on. You find your voice — hazy and echoing in this strange place.

The ghost says nothing. It circles around your body before facing you once more. Its face is hidden beneath the hood of a grey robe.

“Are you afraid?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Where you assume a mouth would be opens and a finger of black smoke emerges, shooting from under his hood and into your face. You feel it go up your nose and behind your eyes, plugging your ears and filling your mouth— The ghost lifts skeletal hands to remove his hood and you’re blinded by what’s beneath, seeing good and bad and terror and beauty all at once—

Then it all goes dark. You hear the bell on Brad’s collar ring out as Ford shouts your name, but your body collapses on Susan’s kitchen floor.

— — — — —

Your vision is dark when you wake up. Blurry. You feel a presence in the room with you, wherever you are, and you reach out a hand to a shadow in the corner and meekly call to it.

The shadow stands, dropping something in its wake, and it rushes to your side, carefully taking your hand and draping your arm back on the— bed. You’re on a bed. The sheets smell like… Like Ford, somehow. The metallic scent of wet ink and the forest’s freshness combined, along with the weirdly sweet smell of sweat. Ford had thankfully started showering more after you started working for him, Fiddleford had pointed out.

“Careful. You need to recover from what happened.”

You know that voice— Ford?

You blink, and Stan comes into focus. He squeezes your hand and chuckles.

“Nearly, kid. Ford’s here. Not left your side since he fixed you up.”

You slowly turn your head towards where Stan nodded to find Ford asleep at your side on his bed, and you register the weight of his arm on your stomach. Your face falls and you turn back to Stan for an explanation.

“Took him twelve hours to get the Trace outta you, or whatever weirdo name he called it. The little bratty ghost was a trick for somethin wild that was really hidin’ in Susie’s place.”

— What?

“You heard me right. Ghosts were festerin’ in her place. Some sorta rip in spacetime or whatever? I dunno. But her place was the stompin’ ground for all sorts of weird stuff goin’ on. She had eight ghosts livin’ in her house right under her nose. And under all her little cats’ noses, now that I think of it.”

Stanley rubs the back of his neck.

“Ford wrote it off as some category one ghost one minute, you were on the floor with all this black smoke in you th’next. Scary shit. Fiddleford near enough fainted!”

You try to laugh and cough instead— your palm is freckled with black dust when you pull it away. Stan hands you a tissue.

“You were twitchin’ up a storm. Black eyes, black stuff crawlin up your veins—“

You suddenly remember reaching your hand up to Ford and seeing your hand was completely black.

“We had to tape you to the floor, you kept movin’ so much—“

The duct tape on your wrists— you remember trying to pull free, writhing around on Susan’s linoleum floor.

“You were screaming…”

It echoes in your head. Deafening, rattling the windows. Stanley goes quiet.

“Ford was real worried. He’s not seen a possession so bad before.”

You turn onto your side to face Stan and Ford shifts, his arm around your middle curling tighter and pulling you close. Stan rolls his eyes, faking puking in jest. 

“He did tell me about you, y’know. You were all he would talk about on the phone whenever he called! All the postcards and letters home… They all mentioned you like six million times after you came on the scene.”

You look to the sleeping man over your shoulder and smile faintly. But why, you ask? Stanley laughs out loud at that, slapping his palm to his forehead.

“You’re as oblivious as he is, huh? Perfect match, I guess.”

You stare at Stan quizzically.

“I know I just met you ’n all, but I know my brother. And I know when he’s got it bad for someone.”

You flush scarlet at that. … Really?

“Really really. Ever since the one’a the first letters he sent me when he found you.”

Stan rolls his shoulders back and pushes imaginary glasses up his nose. He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket— did he carry around that letter all the time? Or did he conveniently bring it along in case something similar to this ever happened?

He’s a real interesting fella, that Stan.

“Dear Stanley,” he starts, deepening his voice to sound like Ford, “I hired a new assistant today since Fiddleford’s wife is expecting. They’re intelligent and dependable, and have a fascination with the weird that near parallels mine. The lab coat suits them, and I feel this alliance is most suitable for my work. They often get lost in daydreams and look wistfully out the window at the forest outside my home… I catch them when the sun hits them just right, and I almost want to document them in my journal.”

Stan pretends to scribble something in one of Ford’s books and you giggle. The man himself snores softly, his hair tickling the back of your neck.

“They’re the one anomaly I can’t quite solve, Stanley. How do I talk to people I wish to… Get to know better? If you understand what I mean? Sincerely, Stanford.”

He lightly nudges your arm at that, winking.

“P.S. Stop sending me bags of toffee peanuts. You know I hate the things.”

Stan pulls a packet of them out of his jacket pocket and rips them open, popping one in his mouth.

“See? He’s got it bad,” he says through a full mouth of candy. “And I saw you earlier today, you got it too. Right?”

You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t lie to Stan— especially with your telltale red cheeks giving you away. Instead you roll over to face Ford, mumbling about how you want to go to sleep.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Stan leaves soon after that, clicking the door shut behind him. You settle back into the bed and go to fall asleep again, Ford’s arm around you holding you tight.

— — — — —

You wake up again when the sun is bleeding between the pines trees outside your window, streaking the sky with pink and orange. The sheets tug at your side and you look to find Ford flipping around in bed to face you, apparently still asleep. You gently poke his cheek and his eyelids flutter open, his gaze hazy until he focuses on you.

“Oh— !! Oh goodness, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I— Oh…”

Ford goes to sit up but you grab his arm, stopping him in his tracks. You ask him to stay— quietly, hopefully.

“… Well, if you… if you’d like.”

Ford lies back down with you, your noses inches apart. Sure, there’s a lot of room on this bed, but the closeness is comforting.

You tell Ford that Stanley told you about what happened. Ford goes very quiet and very red.

“He’s such a chatterbox… Can never keep things to himself.”

Ford is silent in thought once more. He won’t meet your eye.

“I was scared. We had no idea what happened to you— one moment we were writing about the category one ghost, then the Trace clouded around you as you fell to the floor. We were all terrified we— I’d— lose you.”

His sudden outburst of honesty surprises you, but it’s comforting to know you weren’t alone when all this madness happened. You tell Ford you don’t remember what happened after you saw the ghost, but that you’re glad he was there to save you from the trace. He smiles at you, nodding.

“I’m glad I was there too. We managed to figure out how to save you, but it was a lot of trial and error once we got you back here.”

Twelve hours of it, apparently, you mutter, and Ford laughs sheepishly.

“Yes, twelve hours. After a while we got the trace out of your body but you wouldn’t wake up. Nothing was working, but Stanley told me you’d rise in time. Apparently I… Fell asleep here too.”

You both go quiet again, but you feel Ford staring at you through the silence. You muster up the courage to ask about the letter Stanley showed you, and Ford stutters to find an excuse. It’s… rather cute, actually.

“I… Well, um… I meant it.”

… He did?

“I did. I do, even. Um… Yes.”

Ford’s breath catches and he carefully takes your hand, holding it as if it were made of porcelain.

“I care about you a great deal. Both as my assistant, my friend, and… Something more.”

You smile at Ford and burrow into his chest, your ear to his chest, heartbeat against your cheek. You quietly tell him that you reciprocate those feelings— you care about him “a great deal”, too, even if he is your boss.

Ford laughs at that, pulling you closer. He tugs the sheets up around the two of you and rubs his hand in small circles on your back.

“This may make work even more interesting.”

“More interesting than category nine ghosts?”

“… That’s debatable.”


End file.
